


Remnant.

by furies



Category: West Wing
Genre: Gen, Married Couple, Pre-Series, making it work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-11-24
Updated: 2001-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furies/pseuds/furies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't believe in endings.</p><p>(slight spoilers for "gone quiet" and "indians in the lobby".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remnant.

The rain was dripping.

It pittered and pattered inconsistently on the roof of the porch, the wind rattled the bulb inside the iron wrought lamp. It flickered. She sat in a wicker rocking chair, an old brown afghan wrapped around her knees. Breath visible.

That had been the last time, the last time it was only theirs. Four years before the White House, before. A holiday dinner, a gathering of laughter, they didn't stop to make it last. And home became a faded photograph, edges yellowing in the wrinkled pages of the leather bound book. It didn't take long, only a couple of years, four years, and now it is just another residence on the list of many. Special only because it symbolizes something before. Some remnant of a life closer to the land, some fragment of Jefferson's agrarian ideal. She told him he couldn't claim permanent residence at the White House.

The air is cleaner here, she thinks, the New England air crisp. She is back to where she was then. The porch has faded and the azaleas died, but the chair still creaks when she hits a forty-five degree angle, rocking, rocking.

Four years and that was the last Thanksgiving, the last real one, before. She thought she was ready then but she didn't believe that these things couldn't stay. It's four years later, and she doesn't feel right calling this, this home. Anymore. She wanted to come here this year, where they owned the land. Where she could own herself.

They celebrated somewhere else. Everything has consequence.

Before, four years before, when they believed there were "off-limits," Liz came north to her parents house, their house, with her boy and Annie for a Thanksgiving feast. Abbey let her have the honor of ruling the kitchen. At dinner, served 5:30 prompt, the turkey carved and the potatoes steaming, he sat at the head and she at the foot. Matriarchal in all her holiday glory. Heads bowed and hands held, he had many things to be thankful for. Annie solemnly said, "I'm thankful for mommy and daddy, and Snickers. And for my house, and my school, and Aunt Ellie and Aunt Zoey. And that Grandpa won his race, so now Grandpa and Grandma can come to my dance show."

She didn't think it could last. Nothing could top what they had then.

As they called her Mrs. Bartlet and told her what clothes to wear, warned her of appearing too successfully independent, her mantra had been, four years. As she held dinners for dignitaries whose politics she abhorred, kept quiet on issues because they were too radical, or feminist, or strong, she thought, there is a deadline.

It had been the last Thanksgiving, four short immense years ago, and she sat afterwards on this very same porch. The sky was clear, the leaves dancing around on the lawn. Bright and obtrusive, reds and oranges, they looked so alive despite their previous death. Annie came out and sat on her lap and they named the stars. All of Annie's stars that year were named after various pets and friends and teachers. She was 11, and for all her inquisitive glory, hadn't figured out who her grandparents were.

The year after, Annie was 12 and the lights from the lawn made it hard to see the stars. The first of many in the White House, awkward, stiff, and he sat at the head and she at the foot. Time shifted, she felt as if they were all part of a holiday pageant. No one spilled cranberry sauce on the tablecloth.

Zoey was thrilled that they never had to deal with leftovers. Liz told her, near the piano with a wine glass in hand, it was worth it all just so Zoey didn't have to pretend she knew how to cook.

Abbey is older now, and perhaps wiser. They all are, and Annie's stopped telling people who her grandparents are. The holiday season marked with overcast skies and wind out of the northeast.

"Great-Aunt Eliza was right. Never trust a politician." His feet fall heavy on the wooden slats, precise. She remembers Ellie at the piano, metronome clicking and ticking. Keeping her fingers on track and time in its place.

She thinks, look at me, Jed. Look at how we are.

"You asked about a deal." No question, a cold hard statement of fact. She wonders, not for the first time, why she fell for a man whose ancestors founded the Granite State. Hard and stubborn, it ran in the blood.

She swings forward and back, never breaking rhythm. "Yes, Jed, I asked about a deal." Tired, but not conceding. Almost bored. They mastered the art of tone and inflection years ago, painting each other with the rise and fall of syllables.

Zoey made pecan pie that year while Ellie made apple. Zoey stole a recipe off the bag of pecans. She mixed up tablespoons and teaspoons, and forgot to preheat the oven. The top was caramelized and rock-hard and Annie claimed she broke a tooth. As Zoey's eyes welled, he took a large bite and declared it fantastic. She brightened, and Liz made Annie finish her piece.

Only Abbey tried the apple that year. Ellie told Zoey she did a good job, that the inside of the pie tasted like candy. You just have to break through the crust, she said.

"You've been acting like an ass lately."

They learned each other, arguing. His Catholic backbone of hierarchy and guilt was rigid, her spine straight. She often let him win.

"Don't change the subject on me. You asked about a deal!" Self-righteous hostility creeping into his tone. It's a wonder, she knows, that two explosives don't cancel each other out.

"You're damn right I asked about a deal." Matching his carefully contained frustration. "You're not the only one that knows a thing or two about sacrifices."

He hurls a laugh into the dusky air that is thick with decision. "Really Abbey? What have you ever really sacrificed?" A rooster crows. Time has ceased to exist.

A wet silence and then, "Abbey, I- " He knows.

She doesn't think she can live like this, this. Anymore. She thinks, look at me Jed. Look at us. Look at what we have become. Announces, loudly, "You bastard." But the venom isn't there completely. The chair swings rhythmically on the wood, creaking in time. She thinks of Ellie's metronome and wonders when the space between grew so silent.

He starts to sputter, but she brushes his claims aside. "Oh, give it a rest Jed. You screwed this up from the very beginning and you have no one to blame but yourself. That's what all this is about, accountability, and you're too chicken shit to own up to it. You wouldn't even apologize. The world doesn't revolve around you, despite what must be going on in that pea-brain head of yours."

She worked long nights while he put the girls to bed and the letters from school were addressed to Dr. and Dr. Bartlet, or sometimes Mr. and Dr. Bartlet. He always had a tendency to pout. After that Thanksgiving, four years ago, before, things were never the same. Naïve, perhaps, to think that things would stay.

"No Abbey, you're right, the world doesn't revolve around me. If it did, 5 million children wouldn't be starving, we wouldn't be facing a war, the nation's farmers would --" She cuts him off.

"Oh, stop playing the goddamn martyr. Don't throw me numbers and statistics you know full well I know." Her hands are trembling, she didn't notice until now. "You never treated me like I was stupid before."

He once said that he loved every atom of her, and as they lay in bed she named bones and organs and muscles. He kissed them all, even the ones inside of her.

That Thanksgiving, the last Thanksgiving before the world became their backyard, she sat at the foot and said, this is why it's all worth it. He looked at her quizzically. She didn't explain. His breath was hot against her neck and she laughed as his fingers danced around her stomach.

His breathing sounds rough. She files it away, colored coded, thick. He says, awkward, "It wasn't supposed to be this way. This isn't . . . this isn't how it was supposed to happen."

She knows.

Her handwriting never became illegible. She scrawls in darkness and letters still line up. She doesn't believe in endings.

That year, the last year, Liz threw the rest of Zoey's pie away as she did the dishes. Abbey admonished her and Liz sounded shocked. "But who would want more of that mess?"

They sit in fat black, silent. Her chair creaks, rhythmical.

"The way the rain's falling, it sounds like music." He offers. She accepts, and this is how it is played. They learned each other, arguing. Thanksgiving was years ago, four years ago, before.

"Mozart had nothing." His face remains firm. She listens to the irregularity of the water, sneaking earthward. Her heartbeat echoes, aortas regular. Clench, release. Flood, expel. A consistent thumping within, pushing without.

"Neither did Stravinsky."

The rain is dripping.


End file.
